


Kindred Spirits

by lazarus_girl



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"She doesn’t look well, that’s his first impression ..."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred Spirits

**Author's Note:**

> Crack. Gen crossover. Originally titled 'Post-It Notes for the Holy Ghost.' Written for [](http://skins-bamfs.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://skins-bamfs.livejournal.com/)**skins_bamfs**  Granny Race 2010. Very slight nod to _Being Human_ series lore, which suggests there’s a ‘door’ entrance to the next life/heaven/hell.
> 
> Originally posted at my Livejournal. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

Heaven is not a fucking half pipe. In fact, Chris thought, when he first arrived, that it looked a lot like a telesales office. It even has the same carpet tiles, only they’re white, everything’s fucking white round here (he wears neon green socks every day just to rebel). That part of this whole Afterlife experience, he got right, everything else came as a bit of a surprise.

Surprise one: the fact the Afterlife actually exists, that people have jobs and houses and allsorts, instead of just sitting on a cloud or whatever, like that bird from the Philadelphia adverts. If you weren’t already dead before your arrival, the shock of it would kill you, he reckons.

Surprise two: the fact that far from being virtuous and angelic and all that shit, most people round here are fucking miserable on their account of being dead.

So much for high spirits.

All the miserable people seem to have congregated here, in The Office of Soul Segregation (TOSS). There’s no angelic looking birds here; all the supermodel types get nabbed for Guardian Angel duties. They like to make the sure the people who visit earth are attractive. Seeing a ghost is scary enough without them being as ugly as fuck.

His job’s still quite important, and if he’s honest, he was quite proud of himself when he was selected. The Spirit Recruiter, Tristan – a posh bloke from Kensington, bit of a prick – suggested he do it because he’s ‘good with people,’ and ‘get out more’ and all that shit. What Tristan didn’t tell him was that he wouldn’t be outside; he’d be stuck in a tiny little booth like those battery hens they show you on telly to make you feel guilty for liking KFC and those quid chicken legs from Tescos.

He still likes KFC and Tesco chicken, well; he would if he still ate things.

He’s one of the hundred or so lucky, lucky people who get to process all the newcomers. It’s all forms, and targets and sodding quotas. At the end of the day, they’ll get stamped and go one side or the other: the white or the red. He’s had a few reds in his time; proper evil fuckers who he knows are destined for oblivion the second he reads their file. Purgatory for them lot. Destined to watch reruns of Neighbours and Hollyoaks forever.

They assigned him here because he’s a local boy. He hopes that he’s a bit friendlier than some of the others, miserable old bastards who’ve been here so long they’ve forgotten what it was like when they were alive. Especially his boss, Mr Lincoln. Sorry, Mr. Richard Lincoln, Team Leader, Bristol Unit. Lincoln – or Dinky Dick, as Chris likes to call him – thinks he’s the bollocks, because he has biggest number of ascensions to Heaven in TOSS history. Before this, he was some swish stockbroker. Died in 1983, mysterious circumstances. Chris likes to think it was some sex game with a prozzie gone a bit wrong, because he looks the type: slicked back hair and expensive suits with silk ties. Those lot are usually proper freaks when it comes to sex.

Mostly, Chris just thinks he’s a twat, because he talks in all this management speak, like David Brent only, fifty fucking thousand times worse. He needs to come with a translator of some sort, because he doesn’t speak Twat-ese.

His favourite part of the day is striding up to the bell in the corner, by Dinky’s desk and rattling the fuck out of it to signal that someone’s gone off to Heaven. There’s a moment of silence before another star goes up on the scoreboard. Dinky likes targets. He’s working on surpassing the record, picking through the files and getting the good souls, it’s worth it just to see Dinky’s face.

“What’s on today then Dinks?” Chris leans back in his chair, feet up on his desk, grinning at Lincoln.

“Stop calling me Dinky, and get your feet off the desk! This is a place of employment, not a holiday camp!” Lincoln reaches forward, sweeping Chris’ legs off the desk. If he weren’t dead already, Chris is sure the vein in his head that throbs when he’s irritated would burst and kill him on the spot.

“Course, I forgot, it’s not pucking Butlins. How silly of me,” he mutters.

“Soul Segregation, Christopher, that is our Celestial duty,” he takes a breath, puffs his chest out. Chris is sure he hears some stirring music, but it’s probably Gabriel’s Angels doing harp practice. “We are the front line. The first face of the Afterlife,” Lincoln continues, oblivious, gesturing to his precious scoreboard.

Chris zones out, mouthing the words as Lincoln says them, he’s heard it all before. Too many fucking times. Proper fucking renaissance man, this one. Chris should be bowing at his feet. Probably.

“Yes, yes, of course, and we have to honour and respect our clients,” Chris repeats, parrot fashion overlapping Lincoln at exactly the right moment.

His boss beams, handing him a batch of files.

“Puck me, busy day!” he exclaims, running his fingers over the files, counting as he goes: fifty-two.

Lincoln turns back toward him, expensive Italian shoes squeaking as he does so, “Pardon?”

“A busy day,” Chris looks up, smiling, pressing the button on his terminal to signal his post’s open.

“We never rest until everyone rests in peace, Christopher,” Lincoln answers, giving a little clap as he strides down the aisle.

***

“Sophia Moore?” Chris grabs the Tannoy microphone. His voice booms out, crackly, echoing as he looks round the holding room. He glances down at her file, scans the page a bit whilst he waits, looks at her photo and back up at the groups waiting to be called. It’s a bit disorienting, pitching up here, all the bright lights and noise.

Only just seventeen the file says. Suicide. Chris shakes his head. Too fucking young. There’s always a moment where he lets himself be sad for them, but then he gets the fuck on with it, because it’s what he has to do.

Greg, his only real mate here – top lad, a raver, cut off in his prime thanks to some dodgy MDMA, or it might have been Ketamin. Chris can’t remember – leans over from the next booth. “How come you always get the girls? You punt.”

Chris grins, amused that Greg’s adopted his little trick for getting round the Afterlife’s no swearing rule. “What can I say, it’s a gift. I doubt she’ll be going in for Angel Recruitment though, she looks like a bloody poodle!” he turns the file toward Greg and they both laugh.

“No wonder she offed herself,” Greg carries on, oblivious to Dinky marching up toward them.

Dinky’s suddenly there, arms folded, super serious face on, “Do we have a problem gentleman?”

“No,” Greg turns away, “hunky-dory here, Dinky.”

Chris shakes his head. Sure, he was a laugh, but no Tony and Sid, not that he’d want them here, of course, unless it was time.

“I can always send you back to Spirit Cleansing, Greg, if those three months sifting through lost property weren’t enough for you,” Dinky quirks his head, eyes narrowing.

“Nope, nope, fine here.”

“Good,” He pushes Greg’s chair back under the desk. “Now, Christopher, please make the final call for Miss Moore, and move along. Alright?”

Chris gives a nod, hoping she’ll finally respond, because there’s nothing worse than being passed over. She’d have to wait; she’d be stuck in between worlds. That’s like the worst hangover ever, and no one’s got any fucking Panadol. He endured it for two whole months because he dodged the entrance door, wanting to stay for Jal’s sake.

“Sophia Josephine Moore?” he calls again, adding the second name in case there’s more than one.

***

She doesn’t look well, that’s his first impression when she sits down opposite him. The way she’s looking at him, all wide-eyed, it’s freaky.

“My name’s Chris Miles, welcome to the Afterlife. I’ll be your Spiritual Guidance Operative today. If you could just answer a few questions you’ll be on your way as soon as possible,” he offers a smile, getting the formalities out the way first, and he tosses his script to the side.

He can already tell this one won’t be the easiest of entrance interviews.

“Oh wow, it’s bright in here,” she says, slowly, as if she’s testing out her voice.

Chris is suddenly reminded of Cassie and her strange, ditzy little ways. He forces himself not think about anyone or anything from before; that’s where the misery comes from. He’s not turning into the sad old gits here wishing for their life back.

He needs to get this done and move on, because she’s freaking him the fuck out.

“You’ll get used to it. Name and age?” he snaps, unintentionally, and she blinks startled, leaning away from him.

“Sophia Josephine Moore. Seventeen.”

“Great,” he ticks the first two boxes; glad he doesn’t have to write anything. Dinky says his handwriting’s atrocious. His mullet’s fucking atrocious, Chris thinks, glancing over at Dinky, all over Jodie, the office totty, while she’s on the Celestial Exchange, phoning in all the transfers. At least handwriting is something that can improve. As for old Dinky, he’s stuck with a barnet like George sodding Michael.

“Time and place of … expiration,” he makes eye contact with her for this one. It can be tricky for people to talk about.

“Syndicate Nightclub …” she tails off, looking confused. “I don’t remember, a lot… happened.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says gently, looking down at the answer: 12:38. From what he remembers, which gets fuzzier as the days go on, it’s still open then, so it must have been pretty instant. Jesus, what a way to go.

It’s his turn to be puzzled when he reads the date. Until he read 2010, he was seriously considering that she might have been a Transitional Spirit, held over from about 1987 – it happens, unsolved murders suddenly being solved, stuff like that – because she looks like that Kate Bush bird he was always seeing on VH1 Classic. You wouldn’t catch Jal or Michelle wearing any of that shit. Cass might, but she lived on her own planet most of the sodding time, and only Sid knew the co-ordinates.

That’s the trouble, whatever you’re wearing when him upstairs decides it’s time, you’re stuck with it, unless you’ve got an SGO that’s a soft touch like his was. Lucky really, since he was pretty much stark bullock naked at the time. Not a look you can pull off for eternity, even if there’s no seasonal weather up here.

“Jean shorts all the rage are they?” he can’t resist it, looking up at her with a smirk. What was it with these lesbian birds and check stuff? Did they get it in a box with the rainbow flag and the strap-on?

“What?” she leans forward, and he’s quite glad there’s a desk and a pane of glass separating them because there’s something proper intense about her, but she looks like she’d shatter if he blew on her. Well weird.

“Nothing,” he goes down another few boxes, sees her father, Captain Stephen Richard Moore is already here.

A reunion. Nice. Probably why she did it. He doesn’t get to see the Oprah bits though, that’s another section, when she goes for Spiritual Adjustment. TOSS is all about the Jeremy Kyle moments. People either rant and rave, bawl their eyes out, or remain completely silent. They’re left to mop up all the emotional crap that dying brings about.

He daren’t bring it up now, because she doesn’t look ready to deal with it, she might go all Exorcist on him.

“Partner at time of expiration?”

“Oh, erm.” Sophia shifts awkwardly in her seat.

“Boyfriend or whatever, they use it for your Adjustment. The more we know, the better.”

Though, in her case, he thinks it might be better to know less.

If they were back on earth, he’d have probably offered her a spliff, a beer, or at least a cup of tea and some biscuits – no, a doughnut, everyone likes them, don’t they? – because she looks really wound up. Mind you, if they _were_ back on earth, she’s the kind of girl he’d cross the road to avoid.

“Girlfriend,” she smiles, pauses for effect, and his Chris’ head snaps up, because, well bloody hell, he didn’t expect _that_.

“Not a cock cruncher then?” he leans forward, grinning at her, interest suddenly piqued. Up until this week, the most exciting thing to happen in the office was a visit from the new delivery bloke. Mad Twatter. The top source for gear – and many _many_ other things back in the day – was now the water cooler man.

How the mighty fall.

“No,” Sophia smiles, and Chris can’t help but think she’s actually quite pretty when you can see her face. “She’s lovely. The most beautiful girl in the world …” her eyes are brimming with tears, and it’s all gone a bit more serious. If there’s one things he hates, it’s girls crying. He’s stopped picturing lesbians that have giant boobs and ones that look a bit more normal and a bit less trashy.

“Well,” Chris takes a risk, and puts his hand through the small gap in the partition, and touches Sophia’s.

“Ooh, you’re cold!” she chuckles.

“Yes,” Chris pulls his hand away and holds her gaze, waiting for the inevitable penny to drop. Knowing your dead is one thing. Feeling it is a different fucking ballgame.

“Oh, of course,” is all Sophia says, and looks down at the table.

“What’s her name?” he prompts. Dinky would be over in a minute, choking him with Old Spice fumes. They had a specific timeframe for turnaround, and these forms were so bloody long. Be better if they computerised the whole thing really, but Dinky’s not one for innovation. The last bit of technology he saw was a bloody VHS tape.

“Naomi,” a pause. “Naomi Campbell,” she continues, with a dopey look on her face.

She’s clearly lost all her fucking marbles in transit. Supermodels and college students just naturally happen don’t they? She’s proper lanky, this Sophia girl, but she’d probably still need a stepladder for a snog.

“Naomi Campbell?” he repeats, and Sophia nods so vigorously he has visions of her head dropping off. “One second. Sit tight love,” he gives a nod, and turns off his microphone so she can’t hear anything else.

Sophia smiles, sits back, looking oddly relaxed. It’s unnerving.

Chris presses the button under his desk, red, for emergencies. Keith, Chief Spiritual Guidance Operative comes up. He’s a proper old hippy. Died at the Isle of Wight in 1972 after kicking over some cows in a field and half the herd came after him in revenge.

“What’s doin’ Chris my lad?” he leans over and Chris points to Sophia’s paperwork.

“Is she a fruit bat or what?” he turns to Keith, looking back at Sophia.

“Honestly, that’s her name. Really,” she taps the glass. Chris holds up a finger, signals for her to wait.

“Oh dear, that’s not right is it? Can’t be?” Keith strokes his beard thoughtfully. “She get a bang on the head?”

“She jumped off a balcony. I’d say she got a bit more than a bang on the head! She wanted to kill herself!”

“Well done sweetheart, you’ve succeeded,” Keith replies, and he looks up at her, smiling through the glass. “You go on a break, son. I’ll deal with this.”

Reluctantly, Chris gets up from his seat and turns off his terminal. Keith presses another button on the desk.

Chris falls silent, not sure what to say.

Behind him, the bell rings twice in quick succession.

“She’ll come back through when she’s better, I’m sure. It won’t count as a failure. Don’t worry.”

Chris has only heard what happens now from other operatives. It’s a bit like trying to see a unicorn or finding a four-leaf clover or something. So he’s a bit more excited than he should be. Her going off on one means he was right, so he’s sort of like the dead, boy version of Mystic sodding Meg, or something. The burly security boys, Ricky and Rocky – twins, used to work the door at a nightclub, could stop anything but bullets – appear from nowhere and lead Sophia away.

“She’s real, it was real. I promise,” Sophia’s panicking, starting to scream, fighting them. “She loved me, she did. Chris, Chris!”

Everyone watches in silence as she disappears down a long corridor opposite.

He turns away, still able to somehow hear her when he’s all the way outside, standing in the car park, spliff in hand. He doesn’t feel the high anymore; it’s just something to do. Greg comes out a few minutes later and they share it. They don’t talk about Sophia or make jokes about her poodle hair, at least not for a few hours.

***

The next few weeks pass without much incident, and he’s racking up stars like no one’s business, ringing the bell so much that he’s sure he’s giving everyone tinnitus, but fuck it, he’s turned into a TOSS machine! When he reaches 2000 ascended souls, he gives Jodie on the desk a proper good snog, had there not been an office full of people, there could have been a bit of surf and turf on the menu too. But, that’s not too gentlemanly, so he restrains himself. Dinky’s face is like thunder for the rest of the day.

In the quieter moments, near the end of the day, he finds himself thinking of Sophia, her big brown eyes and her funny jean shorts. Sometimes, wondering if she really was tapped in the head or telling the truth. He’d never truly know. When cases get reassigned, you can’t talk about them anymore. She’s probably off somewhere on the nutter ward, happily making macramé poodles to match her hair.

***

“I’ve got something _very_ interesting for you today, Christopher. I think you’ll like the challenge,” Dinky says, one morning, sometime in August before they open up the Holding Room, all smarmy and cryptic as he puts the file down.

“What’s he on?” Greg asks, frowning.

“Pucked if I know!” Chris shrugs, firing up his terminal. “Frederic Alexander McLair?” he calls, puts his feet up while he waits, flipping through the file, almost falling of his chair when he sees ‘Elizabeth Stonem’ listed in the answers.

“That’s me,” a quiet voice comes in reply. Chris’ head snaps up, locking eyes with a tall skinny lad. He’s holding his head, blood pouring out and dripping all over the tiles. Dinky will go mad.

A proper bona- _fucking_ -fide Transitional Spirit. So transitional, so fresh, that the wounds from his death are still healing. Chris shouldn’t be all agleam, and so fucking fascinated, but he’d never been given one before. He’d have to go with him to Calamities and go and talk to fit Jane in Admissions and _everything_ , it was like Christmas, only in August. Fucking mint.

His mouth’s hanging open, and he’s trying not to stare, because it’s rude. He’s got no idea how the poor sod’s standing. He looks in pain.

“Sit down, mate, take a minute, yeah?” Chris waves him down and he slumps awkwardly in the chair opposite.

Things feel different with Freddie. He doesn’t reel off the script. He figures he can be straight with him. After all, the poor fucker’s probably missing some vital parts. Sorting out what side he should be on seems a bit useless at the moment.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say it looked like a Johnny White number; he’d seen enough of his enemies come through here to know what a proper good kicking looks like. Lucky everyone’s dead really, there’s nothing in their stomachs to turn them, but he still feels a bit squeamish. Since when did doctors use baseball bats on people? It’s times like his when he’s thankful he’s never really liked authority figures, except for Angie, and that was mostly because she had nice tits and she was a good shag.

“My head’s killing me … Where the fuck –”

“Puck,” Chris jumps in quickly, just disguising it enough.

“The Afterlife, mate. Sorry, this …” he pauses to read off the file. “John Foster twatted you one. You’re dead. Dead as the Cheeky Girls’ career mate. Finito.”

“I’m what?!” his mouth drops open and his eyes go wide, sending a spurt of blood off to his left.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down a bit!” Chris holds his hands up, shielding himself, “Can’t we sort something out for this poor pucker, fellow TOSSers? He’s not healing properly!” Chris spins on his chair, turns his attention back to Freddie. “We’ll get you sorted.”

One of the other office girls, Amanda – blonde former FHM High Street Honey, nasty incident with some breast implants in 1998 – smiles sweetly at him and trots off to find Dr. Harper, filing her nails as she goes. She’s filling in for Janice, a right evil old bat, who used to be a librarian. She’s one of those scary old cat ladies, with about fifty of them in a flat. Even when they aren’t there, they still are. She stinks of cat and lavender. Smelly bitch. Amanda was a definite improvement.

Chris switches off his terminal and comes out of the booth, carrying all of Freddie’s paperwork and they head toward one of the examination rooms. He looks behind him, screwing his face up at the sight of all the blood, watching it disappear before his eyes. Someone’s made a connection of some sort, back down there, because Freddie’s looking a bit better.

“Will this keep happening?!” Freddie asks as he hops up on the bed.

“For a bit. Sorry. You’ll change properly soon. It’s all part of the process. Once we can get word to them lot down there, you’ll be back to your –” he looks down at the picture on file “Majorly good-looking self. God, I bet you were a right muff magnet! Chris laughs.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Freddie shrugs, relaxes a bit.

Ripe for Angel Recruitment. Gabriel will be jizzing all over the shop.

“Is Effy alright?”

Chris wants to say that he’ll get Jodie to check at least, but it’s breaking the proper big fucking unbreakable rule, the one he’s always wanted to break: New entrants must not be asked about Earthly Events. He stopped asking about people he knew long ago, because it’s too painful, but he still gets the odd moment where he thinks about other stuff: like what shit’s number one, if they still do McFlurry’s at McDonalds and if the Page Three girls in The Sun are still as fit as you remember them.

“Sorry, I can’t talk about that. It’s not allowed,” Chris points to sign on the wall, where all the TOSS rules are written in massive black letters.

“Oh, I’d like to get a message to her, if there’s some other way?”

“You can. When you’ve settled in and everything, you’re allowed an Earth Exchange.”

“So I could see Effy again?”

“Yep. Face to face with your baby love!” he frowns, thinking about Tony Stonem’s little sister like that is fucking weird. “Only ten minutes though, so I doubt you can get up to much, unless you’re erm, fast out the starting blocks,” he laughs.

“Ten minutes will be enough. There’s some things she needs to know,” Freddie doesn’t laugh. In fact, he’s gone a bit pale.

Chris jumps in, eager to fill the silence, “That’s a secret; you aren’t supposed to know that until you’ve been through Spiritual Habitat Interaction Training (SHIT). Now I've told you, okay? Now you know,” he winks at Freddie conspiratorially, holding a finger to his lips to signal for his silence when Dr. Harper enters.

“Afternoon, Frederic. I hope Christopher’s welcomed you,” she smiles warmly.

God Bless the Celestial Health Service. She really should come with a Health Warning. Definite candidate for some serious man and woman kissing and surf and turf. Well, if she wasn’t like TOSS’ answer to The Snow Queen, that is.

“Molly,” Chris grins.

“Christopher,” Molly throws him a glance, in the same way you look at dog shit when it’s on your brand new trainers.

“Oh dear Frederic, you’re in a bit of a state aren’t you?” she flicks a light in his eyes and tests his reflexes, shifting back and forth on a little swivel stool.

“You should see the other guy,” Freddie chuckles nervously.

Chris shakes his head. He’s been here five minutes, this young blood, and he’s flirting with the good doctor! Quality. Chris sits down on the chair opposite the bed, flicking through Freddie’s file. Another Oprah moment on the cards, with his mum. That’ll certainly help things along. If she’s as good looking as her son then there’s some definite MILF action on the cards.

When all his stuff on earth’s resolved, Chris hopes Freddie gets assigned back to TOSS. He could perk things up a bit in the office, add a new dimension to Dinky’s soliloquising in the morning. Either that or the shit he, Freddie, and Greg combined could accomplish would force Dinky into retirement. Either one works.

“Any auditory or visual hallucinations? It’s common, especially with an expiration event like yours.”

Chris flinches, expecting another surge of blood. It’s only a trickle this time. Thankfully. He lets out a sigh of relief.

“Memory is one of the few human traits you keep,” Molly replies.

“Just to, you know, make your time alone for all eternity that bit more exciting!” Chris laughs.

“The less we know about your ‘alone time’, Chris, the better,” Molly fires back, and he shuts up. Looking a dick around her wasn’t unusual, but in front of Mr Boyband? Not cool.

“No, it’s not like that. Cook looks like a devil, and Katie, like an angel. It’s not even how I saw them last.”

“ _Interesting_.” Molly pushes back on her chair, snatches Freddie’s file from Chris and proceeds to write something in it.

“Make sure you fill it in properly. It’ll be me in trouble with Dinky, otherwise,” he protests.

Molly ignores him, going back to Freddie.

“It’s probably due to your injuries. That’ll clear up once you get your Earth Exchange granted. Chris can start the ball rolling on that, can’t you?” she smiles at him toothily. Chris sticks up his fingers in response. Stuck-up bitch. She’s still a hot stuck-up bitch though. “And, get this prescription filled out, they’ll help with the pain until you lose that,” she continues.

“Thanks.”

“All part of the service. I hope things pick up for you, Frederic. You’ll ascend in no time I’m sure.”

God, if they’re any sweeter, he thinks he might vomit. If he could. It only occurs to him now, when he’s back out in the corridor with Freddie, that he can’t actually get drunk anymore either, and he’s yet to test the theory.

“Oh, you look much better,” Amanda giggles when she passes them.

Christ, it was like an epidemic! Perhaps he should bottle some of this precious Freddie’s blood? Clearly this kid’s got something he’s lacking. They all go mad for the Transitionals, must be the fact they have blood at all. Makes them exciting.

“What did I look like before?” Freddie asks, turning to him, finally able to let go of his head.

“Whizzer mate. Pucking champion!” he grins, but then feels a bit guilty. “You don’t want to know. Put it this way, you wouldn’t win Next Top Model, unless they really liked the colour red on a person or Zombie chic is in and I didn’t know.”

“This might be a stupid question,” Freddie begins, and then stops, unsure of himself, as if where he is finally registers. “I’m really hungry, is that normal for …you know…” he tails off.

“You’re in Transition, so you’re a ghost, obviously, but bits of you are still human too. You should capitalise while you still can. It goes away after a while.”

“Really? Where can we go?”

“Canteen of course, they serve food for lucky puckers like you!” Chris throws his arm round Freddie’s shoulders and he points into the distance. “Their chocolate gateau is immense! Being dead has its perks!”

“Feels like I’ve got a lot to learn,” Freddie sighs.

“Lucky for you, Frederic, you landed the best pucking Spirit Guidance Operative going!”

Freddie laughs, properly laughs, and it sounds weird, echoing off the walls in a place that’s usually so quiet. The Afterlife just got a little bit brighter.


End file.
